


Chance Encounters

by MileyCyprus_Hill



Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games), Red Dead Redemption 2, rdr2 - Fandom
Genre: Blessed are the Peacemakers mission, F/M, Farmer Character, Farmer Reader, Later chapters may turn mature, Mild Gore, O’Driscolls, Set right after, Spoilers, early chapters safe, farmer reader series, some gore warnings, warnings labeled on each chapter, wounded arthur
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-21
Updated: 2020-04-28
Packaged: 2021-02-28 23:47:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,924
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23245762
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MileyCyprus_Hill/pseuds/MileyCyprus_Hill
Summary: As a young farmer from Emerald Ranch, you’re headed to a boar hunt in Lemoyne and come across a severely wounded man. You’re curious as to where he came from, who he is, and how you found him in such a state. Little did you know, you’re aiding a wanted criminal with many enemies. And this won’t be the last time you stumble across him.
Relationships: Arthur Morgan & Reader, Arthur Morgan/Original Female Character(s), Arthur Morgan/Reader, Arthur Morgan/You
Comments: 13
Kudos: 46





	1. The Hunt

**Author's Note:**

> Warning: some mild gore. 
> 
> This is set just after the Blessed are the Peacemakers mission where Arthur is kidnapped by the O’Driscolls. It’s not much, as it’s just the introductory chapter.

Now’s as good a day as any. With the summer harvest finished and sold to market, you could finally head out to Lemoyne to hunt boars. The best were found in Scarlett Meadows, according to your uncle.  
You miss your uncle dearly. He wasn’t a perfect man, but a man who tried his best to please and lived according to God’s word. His presence could bring such positivity and warmth to a conversation, but there were days he’d speak of the end of days and the punishment of the harlots and killers who walk amongst us. He spoke as if he prayed those days would come. He wasn’t a very trusting man, unlike your mother and father who lived to lend a helping hand to a stranger. 

_The Lord giveth and the Lord taketh away._

Now your uncle Jesse currently lives on his new farm in the state of Washington, away from the corruption he claimed was taking over New Hanover from the east. After only several months in Washington, he was able to run a successful vineyard. Who would’ve thought? While you stay just outside of Emerald Ranch on your parents’ humble little sheep farm.  
With them passed, it’s just you and the young farm hand, Jeremiah. He’s sweet enough, and keeps good company when he comes in to work. The dark-haired boy came to your farm at just 12 years old, old enough to handle a pitchfork and scythe under constant supervision. Now at 14 with his light complexion tanned to reflect his equally hard-working parents’, he’s proven to be a valuable hand to your farm, learning the business and keeping any riff-raff at bay. 

“Be safe out there, you two,” Seamus calls out to you from behind his workbench at his barn.  
As much as you don’t care for the shifty foreman and his black market store runnings, he’s always been able to get “shipments” of quality ammunition in for your hunts. So, you don’t complain. He’s really not a bad guy. Just...a little shifty.

“Thanks, Seamus,” you reply, stuffing the ammo boxes in your bag. “And don’t forget, I’ve got the Hendersons watching over the house. So don’t get any ideas, alright?” You warn him, holding a single rifle bullet up to your face and staring at him.  
You’d hate to come home to a ransacked house and missing livestock, which was why you asked your neighbors to keep an eye on things. 

Slightly taken aback, Seamus raises his gloved hands and says, “I assure you, nothing will happen. You can always trust me, Miss (Y/N).” He looks to you with a questionable expression, one you still don’t quite trust. 

“Mmm-hmm,” you cock an eyebrow and give him a stern yet teasing look. The corner of your mouth upturns to a little smile as you turn to mount your horse. 

You see young Jeremiah waiting upon the small, wooden wagon. He sits patiently in his patched hand-me downs, the product of being the middle child of a large brood. He checks his rifle and bag for the tenth time to make sure everything’s there. 

It’s his first hunt and and you can tell he’s nervous. His worrisome mother warned him of the evil temperament of boars, telling him stories of how grown men twice his size can be torn to pieces in a minute by a group of hungry wild hogs.  
While she’s not wrong, you’d hate for the boy to be scared out of his wits. Hunting requires a clear head and quick thinking in case things _do_ go wrong. It can’t work if you’re on edge and jump at the sound of every leaf crunch and squirrel chatter.  
It doesn’t help when his mother can’t trust a young, single woman like you to be a master hunter. Despite the fact you’ve hunted for years alongside your father and uncle. 

“Ready?” You ask him, mounting your buckskin horse nearby.

Jeremiah nervously grips the wagon reins to your hefty old Shire, nodding to you and clicking his tongue. 

—————

 _A goddamn trap. Hosea was right, it was a God. Damn. Trap.  
Why didn’t we listen to him? Son of a bitch, I’m gonna strangle Micah when I get back.  
IF I get back—no, I AM gonna make it back._

“C’mon, girl. Take me home,” Arthur weakly urges his horse. His trusty steed, his last line of defense. His eyelids feel like they’re nearly painted shut with dried blood. He can’t recall where that cellar was when he finally crawled out of it, or where he’s even going now. All he knows is that he’s far away from Colm and the O’Driscolls. 

Hopefully. 

Arthur struggles to stay awake as the adrenaline finally wears off and the severity of his wounds exhaust him. The dead weight of his arm pulls the cauterized wound in his shoulder. His skin feels hot and prickly, and he feels sick to his stomach. He slips in and out of consciousness as he hears his horse’s hooves splash in shallow water. His head throbs in excruciating pain at the sound of wet gravel crunching beneath heavy hoofbeats. It’s the last thing he hears before finally succumbing to the darkness.

——————

You’re glad you left early enough in the morning, as you and Jeremiah made great progress getting into Lemoyne. Crossing the border now, it won’t be too long before you reach Amos’s shack near Mattock Pond. He offered to let you rest there before venturing further south to hunt, much safer than camping in the open wilderness.  
Amos was a true friend to your mother and father, and to you. Your father had known him since the war, fighting alongside each other in the Union army. They were both so young when they were thrusted into battle. They looked out for each other and while your father’s been buried for two years, Amos still holds his promise to him and aids you when you need it. 

Busy calculating the miles left to his shack on your map, you barely hear Jeremiah’s words next to you. 

“Reckon this fella’s had too much to drink?” He leans over on his wagon seat and jokes, pointing straight ahead. Picking your head up from your map, you look ahead to a man slumped over on his horse.

If you could call it a horse. 

It’s monstrously big. Its muscles are as thick as an ox’s and it stands as tall as a Clydesdale. You’ve only ever seen those carrying huge wagons to the city a few times in your life.  
This one doesn’t look like a Clydesdale. Its coat is a beautiful cloudy gray and it walks like fluid iron. You follow its legs down as the color fades to an inky black with thick fur at its hooves. 

It looked magnificent, like a war horse in a French painting.  
_An Ardennes, perhaps?_  
It did look similar to one you had seen in the stables of Valentine, several months ago. 

It walked slowly with heavy thumps in the dirt.  
You had intended to simply ride past the gentleman who seemed disinterested in your presence. But something didn’t look right.  
The man’s horse continues to calmly walk on the dirt road as you and Jeremiah ride closer. 

“What the hell?” You mutter.

You quickly realize the man is without his clothes, only in his crimson undergarments. He has a rifle slung across his torso, a gun belt across his waist, and a worn leather satchel at his hip.  
Startled at the sight of his numerous guns and massive horse, you pull the reins to stop your horse and dismount to walk over to his large Ardennes.  
_Was this man robbed?_ You wonder. If he was, he wouldn’t be armed to the teeth. 

“(Y/N), what are you doing?” Jeremiah whispers nervously, worried it’s a trap. He pulls his rifle from behind his seat and readies it in his hands, keeping the wagon reins in his lap. 

You continue to step closer to the horse, trying not to walk too quickly lest you spook it. 

“Whoa girl.” You gently call to her, reaching your hand out to grab her reins. As you slightly tug on the leather reins to stop her, you feel the man in the saddle still has a firm hold on them.  
He seems unresponsive, trusting his horse to take him wherever he’s going. 

“What happened to you?” You whisper, taking in the horrible sight of him. His hair looks grimy and messy, his face swollen and bruised and his nostrils dried with blood. His left shoulder is covered in fresh blood and his union suit is caked in dirt, grime, and what smells like excrement. Looking down at his bare feet hanging freely, you notice they’re nearly black. 

Where the hell did he come from?

The man can barely lift his head to respond to you, if he can even understand you. His bare heels kick gently at his horse’s belly, attempting to urge her on.

“Whoa, whoa,” you coo to his horse and direct her to your own.  
You quickly look back at Jeremiah, who stares at you in confusion. 

You respond, “We gotta get him some help.”

Turning back to the horse, you move to attach a lead to her bridle from your horse’s saddle until the man reacts. 

“Get away,” the man attempts to holler weakly. He pulls a revolver from his holster and points to the back of your head. 

“(Y/N), look out!” Jeremiah yells, bringing his rifle up.  
You turn and instinctively smack the revolver from the man’s hand, which was pointed directly to your forehead. 

“No!” You scream, holding your hands up between the injured man and Jeremiah’s aim. The revolver falls onto the rocky dirt and thankfully doesn’t fire.  
Jeremiah sees, but maintains his aim. 

You look to the man on his horse, his eyes now open but dazed. 

“We’re here to help you, sir,” you attempt to assure him. You step closer to the side of his horse and reach for his hand, holding it tightly in one and grasping his horse’s coarse mane with the other. You stand to calm them both, gripping his hand and feeling the icy chill of his skin against yours. 

“You’re gonna be alright,” you continue, looking into his eyes for any sign of understanding. 

Behind his broken, bloodshot eyes you can see they’re a glistening shade of blue.  
He blinks slowly and drops his head, moving his hands to grip his horse’s mane. His damaged fingers brush against yours that hold the straw-like hair. You let go and pat his hands reassuringly before moving to his forearm, giving it a light squeeze. 

“We’re gonna get you some help, okay?” You state firmly, hoping to speak loud enough for him to hear. His horse’s ears turn back at the loud volume of your voice. 

You turn to Jeremiah and say, “C’mon. We gotta get to Amos’s...quickly.”


	2. The Mysterious Mr. Morgan

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: graphic wound details and mild surgery.

The wagon bumps and jumps on the rough trail as Jeremiah urges your Shire further. Riding on top your horse, you gallop alongside and direct Jeremiah where to turn, looking towards the back of the wagon to make sure the man is still alive.

The man lays in the back of your spacious wagon, wrapped in your coats and blankets. He slips in and out of consciousness, jumping up at every bump and only laying back when you shush him back down. You can sense his pain during this rough ride, but you don’t know how much time he has left with those wounds. You can’t afford to waste time. 

Finally, you make it to Scarlett Meadows and see Amos’s shack in the clearing near Mattock Pond. White smoke flows from the stone chimney, allowing you a sigh of relief knowing that he’s home. 

“Amos!” You shout as you ride closer to the tiny home, slowing your horses. 

The tiny brick home is surrounded with lush wild flowers and large stones. A small, fenced garden peeps from the back corner of the house. 

“Amos!” You screech louder, feeling your horse rear slightly underneath you. You jump off her back and sprint towards the house.  
Within your first two steps, you see that familiar face peer out from the back garden: his trimmed white goatee lightly stained with chewing tobacco, his slack-jawed underbite, and his black leather eye patch covering his right eye. His tan leather hat rests on top his head, shielding his thinning hair from the sun. 

The confused old man wobbles as he tries to stand up off his knees. His tall stature dwarfs most men you’ve ever met and his rotund yet solid stomach reveals his age and love of heavy ales. 

“What’s all the hollerin’ for?” He shouts in his deep Texan accent. His voice is garbled and rough, conveying his annoyance for being interrupted during his favorite hobby. He brushes the dirt off his pants as he stands stiffly, his joints popping and cracking. 

As he steps towards the front of the house, he quickly sees the panic in your eyes. 

“(Y/N)? What’s wrong? What happened?” his voice softened with worry and breathing slightly labored from exertion. He steps as quick as his stiff joints will allow and his eyes dart across your body to check for injuries.

“Amos,” you gasp trying to catch your breath, “I need your help.” 

A pained moan breaks Amos’s attention away from you and to the wagon behind you. Amos looks over your shoulder to see a mass of blankets shuffling in the back. 

Jeremiah nervously calls to you from his seat, “Uh, (Y/N). He’s waking up.” 

For a split second, Amos narrows his eyes at you before stepping past you. He peeks at the wagon and sees.  
Shocked at the poor state of the man, Amos shakes his head and groans.

“Oh, (Y/N). What have you gone and done?” He questions you, as if you were responsible.

“It wasn’t me! We found him like this.” You defend yourself. 

Amos sighs and rubs a hand over his face frustratingly. He doesn’t seem to appreciate a dying man being sent to his home, wounded by God knows what or whom. What if someone dangerous might be out there looking for him?

Suddenly suspicious, Amos looks around and scans the horizon. He peers into the tree line as the wind gently blows, watching for any odd stillness amongst the wavering trees.  
Standing still and on guard, Amos glances over to you and asks warily,

“You been followed?”

Cocking a brow in confusion, you scoff, “We hadn’t seen anyone all day.”

He eyes you doubtfully, unmoving and chewing at his bottom lip. 

Sighing in frustration, you confirm bluntly, “No. No one’s followed us. Now, would you _please_...?”  
With an outstretched hand, you motion to the stranger who still lays dying in your wagon. Time is of the essence, you stress. You’d rather not end up burying this man. 

The three of you carry the stranger inside the house. As you step inside, you notice a small fire burning inside a black, cast iron wood stove in the corner of a small kitchen. Floral wallpaper adorn the walls of the home in subtle shades of yellow, blue and pink.  
Amos directs you to the kitchen, where a square wooden table takes up most of the space. It’s quite large and sturdy, like a hall table. No doubt handcrafted by Amos himself. 

“Set ‘im on the table,” Amos directs, shoving the plates and cups off the table and onto the floor. His expression remains focused and cautious as he promptly looks over the wounded man on his table. 

The man groans pitifully in response to being roughly carried and dropped onto a cold, hard table.

“Looks like he got one bullet out himself,” Amos says pointing to the blackened scab of gunpowder and cauterized flesh on his shoulder. He almost sounds impressed.  
“Help me look for more,” he says.

Amos opens a drawer and digs around for a pair of metal shears.  
You move to unbutton the man’s union suit before Amos holds a hand out against you. 

“Whoa, whoa, I meant Jeremiah! A lady like you can’t be witnessin’ this,” he drawls.

“Now is not the time to discuss proprieties, Amos,” you hiss at his assumption of your naive innocence. “I ain’t some baron’s daughter.” 

You unbutton the rest of his undergarments and hold back a gasp. Peeling back the damp fabric from his skin, you see the man’s entire body is marked with bruises. The irregular shapes are deep in color and marked with fists while others were so deeply struck against him that it cut into his flesh and drew blood. The purple bruises paint his ribs, stomach, and groin; recorded evidence of trauma against his chiseled body. Hovering your hands above his marks, you feel a fever heat rising from his reddened skin.  
You watch Amos cut through the sleeves and reveal the dried blood that dripped from his wound down his arm. The severity of this poor creature’s wounds tear you up inside and your heart clenches in sympathetic misery. 

You watch his chest rise and fall in shallow breaths. Each breath must be agony. 

Though why should you feel sympathetic? You don’t know this man. Or what he may have done to deserve this. Perhaps this beating was justified. 

_“Do not neglect to show hospitality to strangers, for by so doing some people have entertained angels without knowing it.”_

Hebrews 13:2, your father would quote. But not even the most devout, loving Christian could be saved from the devils that roam this earth. 

A startling grip on your wrist breaks your focus and you look down to see the man’s filthy hand grasping you. His hold is weak and his fingers feel like warm coals trembling against your skin. Soon the rest of his body trembles. In fear or from his fever, you don’t know. But he tries to look into your eyes, past the dried blood from that nearly cakes his lids shut. 

You ask Amos for a clean dishcloth and wet it in the pot of boiling water he set on the stove. The warm water beads down your forearms as you wring the cloth and bring it to the man’s face. He’s so weak that he twitches only slightly at your quick intrusion into his personal space. With one hand, you hold him by his swollen cheek and gently wipe his eyelids clean with the other. You feel the dry blood cling and pull on the cloth as you try to help him see without hurting him.  
He moves his thick palm to grip the forearm of your hand that holds his cheek. He holds onto you as if he’s afraid of what you’re doing, and too afraid to let you go. You successfully clean one eye and see it’s a beautiful sparkling blue surrounded by his bloodshot whites. In the center near his pupil, you see a wisp of gold.  
Moving to the other eye, you notice this one looks worse. It’s swollen and darker than the other. Once the fibers of the warm cloth touch his eye, he squeezes your arm tightly like a noose and nearly jumps in pain. 

Amos and Jeremiah jump back from the table, but you’re held close by the man’s hand on your arm. He pants heavily through clenched teeth as if to prevent himself from screaming. 

With your softest voice you try to calm him, “I know, I know. It hurts. But I gotta clean it.” 

He looks at you with the one good eye, the other one struggling to open, and nods. His breathing slows, but remains heavy and labored, like a wounded animal accepting its fate. 

With the lightest touch, you feather the cloth over his eye and wipe the blood away. The eye remains swollen shut and black, but at least it’s clean. After the last swipe of the cloth, he finally releases his hold on your arm and drops his hand to the table with a soft thud. You watch the white imprints and red lines fade from your skin as the circulation returns.  
From the table, he watches you. He doesn’t say a word but remains focused on the three of you surrounding him as he lays naked on the table. He feels a simple tea cloth covering his genitals and he rests a heavy hand on it, attempting to hide his shame. 

Now that the man’s awake, Amos takes the opportunity to question him.

“What’s yer name, son?” He asks. 

“Arthur.” The man answers weakly.

“Just Arthur?” Amos asks “Your pappy ain’t give ya a surname?” 

“Morgan...My pappy’ss-aaa...r—rotten bastard.” Arthur replies with a raspy voice. He breathes as if it takes every bit of strength to talk and stay awake. 

Amos chuckles sarcastically and mutters, “Ain’t they all...Well, Mr. Arthur Morgan, I’m gonna check yer wounds, if Jeremiah here would be so kind to help me.” He motions to Jeremiah who stands pale-faced and stunned.  
The three of you roll Arthur on the table with you in front of him holding him steady while Amos and Jeremiah stand behind him, holding him up.

Watching Arthur’s face cringe in pain, you hear Amos tsk from behind.

“Got another one. Look’s like it’s still in there,” Amos mumbled. 

Peering over Arthur’s large frame, you see Amos point to the back of Arthur’s thigh, just below his buttocks.

“(Y/N),” Amos looks to you, “Run over to the closet in my room back there and there should be a black leather bag up on the shelf.” 

Without hesitation, you jog over to his bedroom and throw the door open to the closet. You hear Amos mutter under his breath. 

“Lord knows I hadn’t used them since the war. Back when I still had both of these.” He points to his eye patch. 

You hear the tools jostle inside the bag as you hold it out for him. Amos meticulously gives you and Jeremiah orders on what to do, organizing his tools and which ones to sterilize in the boiling pot, then laying them out neatly for him with plenty of clean towels. He calmly says these orders while vigorously scrubbing his hands with a bar of soap over the kitchen sink. 

“The bullet’s in there deep, and I gotta get ‘em out.” He states with dread. 

The three of you return to Arthur, who now lies face-down on the table. The tea towel drapes over his buttocks, perfectly rounded and taught. You try your best to look away from his naked form, walking to the head of the table and crouching by his side. Gently, you wrap your hand around his fingers in an attempt to comfort. You watch Arthur struggle to maintain consciousness as he stares at you. He looks into your eyes and can see the dread that fills them.

What’s to come next for him isn’t going to be pleasant, he realizes.

A searing pain slices into his leg like a white-hot knife. It digs into the back of his thigh and pushes against the bullet that flattened upon impact in his flesh. 

Arthur jolts and wriggles in pain, struggling against the weight of the three of you on top of him. Jeremiah lays his torso over Arthur’s legs while you hold him down onto the table over his back. Amos attempts to hold a broad hand over Arthur’s thigh, holding him still so he could properly aim his tool and dig out the bullet. His hands become dark with blood as it oozes out the wound. 

“Hold him!” Amos barks. His hand squeezes Arthur’s thigh in a tight grip in an attempt to hold it down. 

A whimpering howl escapes Arthur’s lips at the horrible pain. You’ve heard the anguish of poor animals being slaughtered by predators in the wild, but none had sounded worse than this poor man’s screams. 

Remaining on top of Arthur, you unbuckle your leather belt with one hand and swiftly pull it out of your belt loops. Folding it a couple times, you bring it in front of Arthur’s face. 

“Bite down on this,” you tell him. You feel his teeth clamp down on the thick leather. His wails are now muffled by the belt you hold in his mouth. His nostrils flare and you feel his heavy breaths against your hand. He grips at the edges of the table with his fingernails digging into the thick wood. 

Amos digs and digs until he finally manages to retrieve the bullet. He pulls it out with his tiny forceps and drops it in a porcelain bowl. The bloody metal clangs against the white porcelain with a subtle _*tink*_. 

Suddenly you realize Arthur’s bite on the leather belt has lightened and the tension in his muscles beneath you is gone. Looking down at him, you realized he’s slipped out of consciousness. His breathing is now light and quiet and his eyelids flickered closed. His arms hang loosely off the edge of the table. 

In fact, the whole room stays quiet as Amos meticulously stitches the wound closed and wipes away the blood. 

Wiping the sweat off his brow with the back of his bloodied hand, Amos sighs.

“Now, we wait,” he says. 

Jeremiah looks over to him in confusion.

“For what?” He asks, his face still paled and clammy. 

“For any chance of infection,” Amos points. “Reckon he’s gonna have a bad couple’a days...Already has a fever. And let’s hope that shoulder don’t turn gangrene.” 

The room falls silent again as you three watch the stranger named Arthur Morgan lay unconscious on the kitchen table. 

.....

It was indeed a tough few days. 

Arthur laid on the bed in Amos’s guest room, writhing and panting. He grabs the sheets in a white-knuckle grip and squirms underneath the layers of blankets and quilts. His eyes remain clamped shut in a grimace as he sweats the fever out. This relentless fever that’s come and gone these past 3 days. 

You had dressed him in a spare set of long-johns Amos had, though they were two sizes too big. The white cotton is now yellowed and damped from his feverish sweat. The shirt had drawn up past his stomach from all of his writhing and you see his bruises have yellowed as they start to heal. 

You thank God his shoulder hasn’t become too infected to suggest amputation. But he’s not out of the woods yet. This fever has to break.  
He hasn’t truly come out of consciousness, only waking up in a daze while you attempt to give him water and broth. Shivering violently, he keeps muttering about men named Dutch and Colm and something about a trap. That’s all you can gather from his incoherent babbles as you lay a cool, wet cloth across his forehead. 

You’ve sat yourself in a chair beside the bed. It’s become your regular spot these past 3 days, switching shifts with Amos and Jeremiah so each of you could get some rest while watching over Arthur. 

But you could hardly rest. You were worried. 

_For a stranger? Why?_

That you couldn’t answer. You didn’t know why. You don’t know him. 

Perhaps it’s your shallow attraction to his handsome looks. You already got a good look at his naked form, his chiseled body. And his eyes. Those crisp blue eyes that sparkled in the light. His sharp jaw and dignified nose. You critique the bump in the bridge of his nose, wondering if he was born with it or developed it by accident. 

You scold yourself at night for thinking about him this way. The man is nearly dying just 10 feet away from you in the next room and all you can think of when you see him is how many hearts he must’ve broken. 

Perhaps that was the cause of this terrible beating? Did he steal another woman’s heart? Did a jilted lover hunt him down for revenge?

 _You’ve been reading too much Jane Austen._ You tell yourself before finally falling asleep. 

Day by day, Arthur slowly recovers his strength. His fever finally breaks overnight and the infections simmer down. Still stiff and sore, he’s only able to sit upright in bed with the support of a few plump pillows. His ragged breathing starts to become a little clearer, a good sign that his ribs are healing nicely. His one eye is still swollen shut, but the awful black bruising is at least fading. 

Now that he’s awake and alert, he tells you he had been jumped by a group of men. O’Driscoll’s, he tells you, staging a roadblock and trying to rob him before beating him senseless and leaving him on the side of the road. Somehow he managed to get his satchel and horse back before running away. 

You have a feeling he’s not telling you everything, but you keep your suspicions to yourself. 

With that knowledge, Amos starts to get on edge. It was bad enough dealing with Lemoyne Raiders from time to time, but now another gang is claiming territory? He urges you, Arthur, and Jeremiah to stay here a little while longer until it seems safe to travel again. You sense his paranoia growing and know he doesn’t feel comfortable being left alone and letting you all travel your separate ways. Who knows when they’d strike next?  
You send Jeremiah to the nearest post office to send word back home that your ‘trip’ has been extended. 

No need to worry them. 

Arthur obviously doesn’t feel comfortable living under your hospitality. Each day he grows more agitated as he attempts to crawl out of bed and leave the cottage. To which, you or Amos promptly drag him back to bed. This went on for five more days: he wakes early in the morning and tries to quietly dress himself and gather his things until he accidentally wakes one of you up, tripping over his boots or dropping his things on the floor from his bad arm. Each morning he argues he’s overstayed his welcome, but you beg him to stay until he fully recovers. You can’t help but feel a little ashamed using your sad doe eyes and fluttering lashes to guilt him into staying. Just testing to see if your feminine charms still worked.  
Meanwhile, Amos points Arthur can’t even mount his horse with that bad arm and wounded leg, let alone dress himself or hold a rifle. At least that got him to stay. 

One morning, Arthur looks to you from his bed. It’s still early and Amos is outside tending to his chores. Jeremiah’s asleep on the comfy, wingback chair by the fireplace in the living room. With both eyes now open and clear, Arthur watches you step around the room, picking up dirty clothes off the floor and dishes from his nightstand. He sits up straight with a steaming bowl of oatmeal in front of him on a tray, holding the spoon with his good arm while the other rests in a sling. He hesitates to take a bite while he comes up with the proper words to persuade you to let him leave. 

It had been so quiet while you focused on cleaning the room that his voice nearly startles you when he speaks up. 

“I gotta get back to my family,” he says discreetly and watching you carefully. 

Your hand hovers over a shirt on the floor and you remained bent over to look at him. Through the short brass bars at the foot of the bed, your eyes lock and you see the soft look of worry written on his face. 

“They haven’t heard from me in so long,” Arthur continues, gently dropping his spoon into his bowl. 

“Your family?” You ask, straightening up. 

_Funny. This is the first he’s mentioned a family._

Arthur nods his head in response, “Yeah...they must be worried sick. It’s why I gotta get back.” 

You remain standing in the center of the bedroom, fumbling with the dirty clothes in your arms. 

“Well...” you nervously say. 

_Might as well confess._

“...I wouldn’t worry about that so much.” You say, now avoiding his gaze and biting your lip. 

Out of the corner of your eye, you notice the confused look he gives you. 

“Whatchu mean?” He asks, his eyes still fixed on you. 

A silent moment passes and the tension grows thick inside the small room. 

Wringing your fingers, you confess, “I, uh, wrote a letter to someone named Tacitus Kilgore. Told them what happened and that you’re alright now and that, uh, he shouldn’t worry...I wasn’t sure where to send it so I addressed it to the Post Office in Rhodes.” 

Arthur stares at you in disbelief. His eyes scan you up and down before he turns to stare off towards the far wall. 

“How do you know that name?” He asks you in a cold rumble. His head slowly turns to stare back at you with those blue eyes darkening under his furrowed brows.

Stuttering under his gaze, you say, “I didn’t mean nothing by it, but I had to know where you’re from, if you had any family. I needed to let _someone_ know. So I—I looked through some letters and got a name and address and—”

“You went through my things?” Arthur interrupts with a hiss. 

It’s natural for someone to be offended when they find out of a stranger invaded their privacy, but his reaction was much harsher. It’s as if you had broken into his home—tore through his only solitude and stole what little belongings he had. 

Taken aback by the sudden venom in his voice, you reply, “Well, I’m sorry but, it’s not like I could get any answers from you while you were on your deathbed.” 

Dropping the dirty clothes to the floor, you continued to spew out your explanations and apologies to Arthur, hoping to lessen the tension. His wounds are still not fully healed, and any added stress would further lengthen his recovery period. He remains quiet and seething on his bed, watching you with a heated stare. 

His voice rumbles lowly. “Where are they? My things?” 

It didn’t sound like a question, but rather a demand. 

With your heart racing, you quickly turn to the chair behind you. You’d rather not test the length of his slow-burning fury before it erupts. Grabbing his worn satchel, you attempt to quickly yet gently gather the loose items back into the bag. You fold the letters and stick them between the pages of the leather-bound journal you didn’t dare to open.  
Closing the flap of the bag, you hand it to him with an outstretched arm. You retract your arm back with a jolt as Arthur snatches it from you with a scowl. 

Remaining silent, you return to the pile of clothes and gather them to leave the room. One foot crosses the threshold before he stops you. 

“Did you look through this?” He holds his journal up in his hand. His head hangs low and his eyes peer at you through his lengthy hair that falls just above his lashes. 

Shaking your head, your voice cracks slightly as you answer, “No.” 

He breathes a sigh of relief, dropping the journal on his lap. 

“Close the door,” he says calmly. 

“Sure,” you whisper and shut the door behind you with a creak.


End file.
